


Tilted

by fuzzytomato



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzzytomato/pseuds/fuzzytomato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all the scenarios Arthur had conjured on the journey from his room to the physician’s chambers as to why his manservant was late yet again, none of them involved a baby.</p><p>Written for the kink_me prompt: A infant comes under Merlin's guardianship for whatever reason, and the sight of Merlin caring for a child turns Arthur into mush (though he'd never admit it, of course).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tilted

In all the scenarios Arthur had conjured on the journey from his room to the physician’s chambers as to why his manservant was late yet again, none of them involved a baby. Magical beasts, errant leeches, loose stonework, a possible hangover and Merlin’s general clumsiness, were all viable options, but he was pretty certain that not one of them involved Merlin holding a tiny, swaddled, sleeping baby to his chest and making cooing noises. So when Arthur pushed open the door to find Merlin looking decidedly haggard, holding an infant in the cradle of his arms and looking at it like some kind of lovesick fool, Arthur understandably stopped short.

 

He stood there for a moment and watched Merlin ridiculously bounce around the room, his blue eyes focused, expression enthralled on the tiny _thing_ in his arms, completely oblivious to the fact that Arthur was standing right there. He crossed his arms in an annoyed manner, tapped his foot, and finally resorted to clearing his throat.

 

Merlin whipped around, drawing his attention away from the babe (finally) and gave Arthur a confused look.

 

“Arthur? What are you doing down here?”

 

For his part, Arthur quirked his lips and waited. He took great amusement in watching the slowly dawning realization steal across Merlin’s features as his gaze darted to the window and the morning light filtering in catching on the dust hanging in the air.

 

“Oh!” he said, cheeks coloring. “I didn’t realize…I thought Gaius would be back in time.”

 

Arthur waved off Merlin’s reply in what he thought was a magnanimous manner. They stared at each other for a minute, Arthur cataloguing the circles beneath Merlin’s eyes, his mussed hair and wrinkled clothing.

 

“So,” Arthur began, gaze dropping pointedly to the bundle in Merlin’s arms, “what’s that?”

 

Merlin looked back at him and blinked.

 

“It’s a baby, sire,” he said as if Arthur were slow.

 

“Yes, I know it’s a baby but what is it doing here.”

 

Merlin looked back down at the infant and smiled tiredly, but fondly.

 

“She’s sleeping,” he responded and Arthur did not miss the grateful tone. “Which is quite remarkable given she kept us up all night with her wailing and…”

 

Arthur huffed, annoyed, with Merlin and with himself. He should’ve learned by now that Merlin never gave straight answers and to get the answer he wanted he’d have to be direct.

 

“How did the infant come into your care, _Mer_ lin?” he asked. Before Merlin could answer Arthur had a horrifying thought: he actually knew very little of Merlin’s romantic escapades (besides the possibility of cross-dressing) so maybe...possibly…could it be? “Is it yours?” he blurted.

 

“No!” Merlin protested quickly. “No. Of course not. I mean, not that it couldn’t be, which it’s not, but I haven’t, not here, and…” he trailed off, blushing. “One of the chamber maids found her in the courtyard in a basket. They brought her to Gaius to make sure she wasn’t ill. He’s out trying to find her mother.”

 

“And he left it with you?” Arthur asked dubiously.

 

“I have taken care of children before in Ealdor,” Merlin answered defensive. “Besides,” he looked back at the little girl and gently stroked her cheek with his fingertip, “she likes me.”

 

Arthur didn’t know what caused the change in that moment, if it was the way Merlin’s long pale finger lightly caressed the baby’s chubby cheek, or the tenderness in his voice, or the affectionate smile that curved his lips, but something made Arthur see Merlin a little differently. It wasn’t drastic, Merlin was still an idiotic, bumbling manservant, but Arthur was suddenly, keenly aware that there was more to him than what Arthur was privy to, and it made his heart flutter unexpectedly and his perspective tilt.

 

“I have training,” he said, trying to keep his detached air. “I expect you to attend me when I am finished. I trust that will give you enough time to figure this out.”

 

Merlin yawned. “Yes, sire.”

 

“Good.”

 

Arthur turned on his heel and left.

 

OOO

 

Arthur trained with the knights for several hours working through stances and techniques. He had earned himself a nasty bruise on his arm when, during a complex series, the image of Merlin, happy and cuddling the small child, popped into his head, unbidden and distracting, which allowed Sir Leon to smack him hard on his arm with the flat of his blade. It left him distinctly annoyed.

 

He returned to the castle, bruised, aching, sweaty and tired. His walk through the corridor was long and peppered by whispered conversations of the mystery surrounding the arrival of the baby, the fact that the child seemed to prefer Merlin, and that the other maids that had been enlisted to help couldn’t get the baby to calm when she cried. He tried to ignore the conversations, outwardly laughed at the absurdity that Merlin could be the superior caregiver, and inwardly tried to disregard the warmth that the picture had elicited within him.

 

It was all illogical really, that a mysterious baby and Merlin ( _Merlin!_ ) of all people could be causing quite the stir and the gossip, but as Arthur had learned over the course of Merlin’s employment, he was anything but pedestrian, and could attract the oddest situations. It was not at all endearing.

 

Arthur clanged his way to his quarters, intent on a hot bath and a filling meal. He pushed open the door to his room, hoping that Merlin had at least gotten time to finish some of his chores, and was pleasantly surprised to see the mess he had left behind picked up. The fireplace was banked high with coals and his bath was drawn, steam rising from the water. His meal was laid out and prepared. A full goblet of wine was waiting near a plate piled with salted meat, cheese, crusted bread and a bunch of grapes.

 

Merlin was in the middle of it all, splayed out in Arthur’s chair, feet on Arthur’s table, head lolling against Arthur’s fur, completely, utterly asleep, small snores emanating from his parted lips. His arms hung limp over the sides, slender fingers smudged and dirty, dangling loose like chimes in a breeze. Merlin snorted loud and his head rolled to the other side of the chair, his long pale neck arched, the ties of his shirt loose at his throat exposing the hollow between his collarbones.

 

Arthur had half a mind to let the poor sod sleep, his exhaustion obvious and his chores completed. (Arthur did vaguely wonder if another servant had come in and completed all the tasks while Merlin slept through it but he decided to give Merlin at least some credit.) And though he had only a limited working knowledge of babes, his experience mostly through visiting ladies and their brats, he had heard that their sleeping habits were erratic at best. He could commiserate with sleep deprivation, having experienced it in the course of campaigns and hunting trips, and the fleeting thought of letting Merlin sleep had everything to do with his ability to empathize with the situation and absolutely nothing to do with the image of Merlin, drowsy and rumpled, getting out of his bed to tend to the infant, shushing and cooing, possible holding it, allowing it to snuggle against his skinny chest for warmth and comfort.

 

However, his armor was not going to remove itself.

 

He grabbed Merlin’s booted feet and shoved them off the table.

 

Merlin woke with a start, sitting straight in the chair, blue eyes wild and roving. They settled blearily on Arthur and he calmed, looked around while pressing the heel of his hand to his head, fingers brushing the dark fringe from his forehead.

 

“Arthur?” he asked, sleepily, voice low and rough.

 

“Yes, Merlin.”

 

There was a beat where Merlin sat there rubbing the sleep from his eyes and relaxing back in his chair before Arthur lost his temper.

 

“Merlin!”

 

Merlin jumped to his feet and strode over. “Sorry,” he responded, fumbling with the buckles and clasps of Arthur’s armor.

 

It was with infinite patience that Arthur allowed Merlin to clumsily divest him of his armor without resorting to beating him over the head with one of his greaves when the task took far longer than it ever should have. Once Merlin finally finished and had found him a clean sheet to dry with after his bath, Arthur managed to slowly lower himself into the steaming water to cleanse the layer of cloying sweat and dirt and soak away his aches.

 

He was in his bath for not five minutes before there was an urgent knock on the door.

 

Merlin opened the door slightly to preserve the prince’s modesty, only to have it forced open by a harried chambermaid, Merlin’s baby clutched in her arms.

 

“I’m sorry, Merlin,” she started, not even glancing at the naked prince five feet away, “but I don’t know what’s wrong.”

 

Merlin carefully took the baby from the maid (Arthur thought her name might be Rose or maybe Mary) and held her to his shoulder.

 

“She’s been fed and changed. Cook even gave her a warm water bath and she still refuses to sleep.”

 

“It’s alright,” Merlin said offering the maid a soothing tone as he patted the baby’s back.

 

From his position, sunk low in the wooden tub, Arthur could see the baby’s alert blue eyes peeking over Merlin’s shoulder, her cheek squished into the fabric of his tunic. She looked relatively harmless and dare he even say it, sweet, as she put a tiny fist close to her mouth. She opened her lips in a wide yawn, her eyes crinkling, and for the first time Arthur began to understand the appeal of babies in a manly sort of way.

 

Then she burped, loudly.

 

Merlin smiled, wide and pleased, before handing the babe back. “That’s all she needed.”

 

“Thank you, Merlin,” she said in such an adoring tone that Arthur had to snort.

 

Both the maid and Merlin started, as if they had forgotten the prince was there at all. Rose (or Mary) looked over Merlin’s shoulder, eyes widening, and face flushing at seeing Arthur in the bath.

 

“Sire,” she stuttered, eyes dropping to the floor.  

 

Arthur waved.

 

“I’ll just go now,” she turned swiftly and left.

 

Merlin turned and gave Arthur an annoyed look, lips turned in a frown.

 

“What?” Arthur asked equally irritated. After all, it had been _his_ bath that had been interrupted.

 

“You didn’t have to scare her,” Merlin admonished.

 

“Scare her? I’m hardly frightening when I’m naked!”

 

“You’re intimidating,” Merlin shot back while riffling through Arthur’s wardrobe for a clean tunic and breeches.

 

“Obviously not intimidating enough.”

 

Merlin merely huffed and spread the clothes out on the bed.

 

“So I take it the situation has not been fixed,” Arthur said, frowning at the way his bathwater was rapidly cooling.

 

“Gaius found her mother,” Merlin replied.

 

“Oh, then it is fixed.”

 

“She was dead.”

 

“So, not.”

 

“No one knows the father. Probably some knight or lord who won’t come forward.”

 

If it were anyone other than Merlin, then Arthur would’ve not ignored the heavy spiteful tone that dangerously bordered on insult, and the implications that Arthur’s knights, and the lords of Camelot were anything but chivalrous, and would’ve had the offender thrown in the stocks. But it was Merlin, and Arthur knew he only had the child’s best interests in mind and that there was some history there for Merlin himself, in regards to his own father, so he only had it in him to give a warning lest Merlin forget himself in front of someone less forgiving.

 

“Be careful of your tone, Merlin. There are many who would not appreciate your less than glowing commentary of those of a higher rank than you.”

 

“Yes, _sire._ ”

 

Arthur rolled his eyes.

 

“So what now? I hope you’re not considering allowing the baby to stay here, are you?”

 

Merlin froze briefly in his movements; his expression telling Arthur that it was partially what he had been thinking, if not exactly.

 

Arthur groaned.

 

“Gaius is looking for a family to take her,” Merlin added quickly, “but it will be hard to find someone to take on another mouth to feed, especially with the approaching winter. And…and how we will ensure that she’s treated well and fed and happy and…”

 

Arthur sat up straighter in the tub, water sluicing down his back and chest as he crossed his arms and placed them on the wooden edge. Though he was the one naked and bathing it was Merlin who was looking decidedly vulnerable.

 

“Merlin,” he interrupted, “she can’t stay here.” He meant for it to come out commanding but his voice betrayed him and he sounded concerned, gentle. “Help Gaius as you need to but make sure she is not in this castle when the visitors from Mercia arrive. Am I clear?”

 

Merlin nodded, gaze fixed on his shoes.

 

“You’re dismissed for the evening.”

 

Merlin turned, heading for the door but Arthur’s voice stopped him.

 

“And Merlin, don’t get too attached.”

 

Again, a slight nod, and Arthur was sure that Merlin would follow his request the same way he followed any other request Arthur made of him, which meant, he wouldn’t.

 

OOO

 

A week ago, Arthur didn’t think that Merlin’s standard of service could possibly get any lower than it already was, but he had been proven spectacularly wrong over the past five days. His room was a wreck. His clothes were not washed. His sheets had not been changed. And in those five days, more often than not, it was another servant that was bringing his meals. Merlin’s presence was sparse at best, and Arthur could only hope that Merlin was at least doing the important tasks, like polishing and maintaining Arthur’s armor, instead of entrusting it to someone else.

 

He had his doubts though.

 

The castle gossip, which Arthur had been trained to both listen to attentively and disregard at the same time, still centered on the mysterious baby, and had gone from speculation about the girl’s fate, to speculation about her parentage, namely that Merlin was the father. Arthur could only laugh at that since Merlin had all but admitted to not dallying while he had been in Camelot. This, upon further thought, had Arthur wondering how a man could go that long without the warmth of another and always sent his brain into thoughts about Merlin that he staunchly tried to ignore, thoughts that were unseemly for a prince to be thinking about his manservant. Thoughts that may or may not center on the paleness of Merlin’s skin, the blue of his eyes, the slimness of his hips and the shape of his mouth. Thoughts that left Arthur irritable and he was certain that if he could just _see_ Merlin then his subconscious would be happy and cease to invade his waking moments with visions that were best left for his dreams.  

 

He felt that his world was off kilter, leaning slightly, and it made him feel like he was not completely in control. He hated that feeling and he hated even more that it was Merlin’s absence that left him feeling it.

 

The Mercian delegation was approaching and would be at Camelot within hours. Arthur needed to ensure that his tunics were washed, his gold circlet polished and his sword sharpened, just in case, and he found himself unsure if anyone, much less Merlin, had completed the tasks. Thus he found himself going to Morgana’s quarters to ask Gwen if she could possibly find someone with enough skill and without an infant to do them. It left a bitter taste in his mouth that he actually had to track down someone, anyone, to make certain that he didn’t look like an idiot in front of the visitors but as much as he wanted to foist his ire and frustration on Merlin, he couldn’t, not when the picture of his servant holding the child, happy and fond, was burned into the back of his skull. As much as he hated to admit it, the mental image melted the icy aggravation into a warm, soft puddle of affection. It was maddening.

 

Upon arrival, he heard giggling just on the other side of Morgana’s door, which immediately put him on guard. Morgana did _not_ giggle. She had never giggled. She only mocked, wickedly he might add, and usually at silly knights that thought themselves worthy of her attention and, occasionally, at Arthur himself.

 

Gwen opened the door on the second rap of his knuckles and smiled.

 

“Sire,” she said with all the deference due to his station, nothing like Merlin, who flung honoraries like insults.

 

Arthur walked in briskly, acknowledging Gwen with a glance. “Morgana,” he started, “the Mercian court will be here in hours and I have come to make sure that you are…”

 

He trailed off as Morgana turned her arms full of a bundle, her face bright with a ridiculous expression.

 

Arthur couldn’t suppress his groan.

 

“Not you too!”

 

The baby sat in the pale expanse of Morgana’s arms, fingers tangled in the dark, elegant tresses of Morgana’s hair and smiling a big toothless, drooling grin.

 

“Arthur, how nice of you to drop by,” she said with a smile. “Gwen, Faile and I were just talking about you.”

 

Arthur’s lips twisted. “Faile?”

 

“Her name. Fitting don’t you think?” she said, fixing the baby with a loving gaze and dropping a kiss to the downy hair of the baby’s head.

 

Arthur blinked.

 

“It means falcon in the Old Tongue,” Morgana continued, ignoring Arthur’s blank expression.

 

“I _know_ what it means but…”

 

“Because she is Merlin’s,” Morgana said, interrupting him while she tickled _Faile’s_ chin and cooed. “Aren’t you, little beauty?”

 

“She is _not_ Merlin’s,” Arthur said firmly. “She can’t be. And where is Merlin anyway?”

 

Morgana pursed her lips and held the child tighter to her bosom as if she was scared Arthur would snatch the little manservant-hogging thing away.

 

“Washing your tunics, sire,” Gwen said as she laid out Morgana’s dress for the feast. “And sharpening your sword. At least, that is what he said he was going to do when he brought Faile here. He looked so tired though I wouldn’t be surprised if he falls asleep in the corridor.”

 

“You work him too hard, Arthur,” Morgana admonished as she readjusted the baby in her arms so the little girl’s head was resting on her shoulder.

 

Arthur felt the beginnings of a headache bloom between his eyes as he watched Morgana dote on the cause of all his recent troubles. “I do not,” he defended quickly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It certainly isn’t my fault that the idiot takes on too many duties from others.”

 

Morgana merely snorted as only a lady could snort, delicate and laden with condescension.

 

“I think you might be jealous, Arthur,” Morgana declared with an elegantly raised eyebrow. Gwen hid her smile behind her hand, poorly.

 

Arthur straightened, and since he would not dignify that statement with a response, at all, he left.

 

Arthur found himself outside of Gauis’s chambers without actually intending to go there, his subconscious somehow guiding him to the best place to find Merlin so he could talk with him and quell all these ridiculous notions of Merlin having a baby and Arthur being jealous of it. He wasn’t jealous. Not at all. And if he had noted that there was a severe lack of Merlin’s presence in his life the past few days, it was because of the mountain of chores left to be done, and not that he, in any way, might have kind of missed his manservant’s boisterous, joyful laugh and silly, beautiful facial expressions and clumsy, fumbling, slender hands.

 

He stood outside the door, about to knock, but the voices on the other side halted his raised hand. He leaned forward, pressed his ear against the wood and could faintly make out Merlin’s tenor.

 

“Would it be so bad if she stayed here, Gaius?” he heard Merlin ask.

 

There was a long suffering sigh on the other side of the door.

 

“Merlin,” Gaius admonished, “we’ve discussed this. You cannot be responsible for an infant.”

 

Arthur nodded, feeling moderately vindicated. At least someone else was being a voice of reason in the castle.

 

“Why not?” Merlin asked, petulant. “I’d take care of her.”

 

“Merlin, you can hardly take care of yourself.”

 

“But I…”

 

“And what would happen to Arthur? You haven’t even completed the duties you need to for the welcoming feast tonight.”

 

Merlin huffed. “I could get them done much quicker if I needed to and you know it Gaius.”

 

Arthur rolled his eyes. Either Merlin had deluded himself into thinking he could actually be proficient at his job or there was something Arthur didn’t know. Probably that Merlin spent half his time lying in fields of flowers instead of working and if he stopped all that lazing about he could possibly finish his chores in a timelier manner.

 

“Yes, and then one day I would be forced to explain to her why her idiot adopted father was executed and Merlin, I am much too old to be taking care of anyone so small.”

 

Arthur straightened at that. Executed? Now that was an overreaction if he had ever heard one. The stocks were a more suitable punishment for ineptitude, unless they were speaking of something completely different and…

 

“Arthur can take care of himself. Faile can’t,” Merlin asserted. “She’d want for nothing, Gaius. I’d make sure of it,” he added in a softer tone.

 

There was a sound of movement, shuffling steps, and Arthur imagined Gaius walking across the chamber and placing a comforting hand on Merlin’s shoulder.

 

“She needs more than love to live, Merlin.”

 

There was another sigh, this one much sadder. “I have to finish polishing this armor,” Merlin answered.

 

Arthur stepped away from the door. He wasn’t surprised to hear that Merlin loved the baby, he knew that already, he had witnessed it the first time he had seen Faile tucked in Merlin’s arms, cradled against his chest, the way he had gazed at her. He’d experienced it in a messy room and forgotten chores, Merlin instead choosing to personally cater to the child’s needs instead of allowing the maids to do so.

 

He wasn’t surprised, because Merlin cried over unicorns, and fed the kittens in the stables, and talked to the war horses as he brushed them, and snuck them apples. Because Merlin encouraged the little ones when they threw rotting vegetables at him while he spent time in the stocks. Because Merlin sent money home to his mother, and spent his free time assisting Gaius, and delivering medicines so the old man wouldn’t have to. Because Merlin held Gwen when she cried over her father, and tried to be Morgana’s friend despite their differences in station. Because Merlin drank poison for someone who called him an idiot, stood beside him in dire, hopeless situations and had so much _faith_ that Arthur would always try to do the right thing and would eventually become a great king.

 

Because Merlin had the biggest heart in all of Camelot and everyone was welcome in it, even prattish princes and orphaned babies.

 

Arthur staggered back from the door, world tilting on its axis so quickly and so decidedly that he felt as if he was sideways. He allowed his head to thump against the stonework behind him, one hand absently running over a spot in his chest that equally ached and fluttered and tingled at the same time, while the other gripped the hilt of his sword, the steel biting into his palm in an effort to keep him grounded. _Merlin_ , with his odd ears and skinny frame and plump lips and ridiculously attractive cheekbones, who made Arthur laugh, and pushed him when necessary and consoled him when needed.

 

If he had thought he had seen Merlin a little differently days ago, then this was a _realization_. It felt more like a punch to the gut or a thump on the head than the soft, warm, light way it was always described in bards’ tales, but Arthur recognized it for what it was.

 

It certainly wasn’t jealously, but it was a near thing. 

 

OOO

 

As Arthur made his way back to his chambers he was lost in some very serious thoughts that centered on feelings and Merlin and Arthur’s feelings toward Merlin. He had always had a protective streak when it came to his manservant, ever since the idiot had lain in the small cot, moaning with fever, sweat soaked and delirious, and he distinctly remembered the sharp sting of helplessness when he had been forbidden to leave, to do the only thing he could do to possibly save him. He guessed it had all started then, with the show of loyalty, and later the heartfelt thank you (though if he were honest with himself it had truly all started when a gangly youth challenged him in the courtyard and there had just been _something_ about him). Those protective instincts had morphed and changed over the months they had known each other, Merlin becoming more friend than servant, and it had gotten to the point where Arthur preferred Merlin’s company to that of the young lords and courtiers, sought him out, felt a tugging sensation in the middle of his chest when Merlin was near and felt empty and alone when he was gone.

 

It helped that Merlin was attractive, pale, lithe, ethereal in his appearance and endearing in his actions and Arthur had, at times, taken to slyly watching Merlin as he completed his chores, cataloguing the stretch of skin over lean muscle, the long coal colored eyelashes that framed his blue eyes and smudged his cheekbones, the slender column of his neck and his small wrists. Merlin could be very distracting at times.

 

Brow furrowed, thoughts focused, Arthur almost missed the gaggle of maids standing in the corridor with Morgana holding court at the center. When they scattered on his approach, he raised his eyebrows and wanted to tell Morgana that their rapid retreat didn’t look inconspicuous in the least, but he didn’t get the chance as she linked her arm with his and gave him a dazzling smile, the practiced one she reserved for feasts with individuals she loathed.

 

“Arthur,” she said, a little breathless as she walked with him, “did you find Merlin?”

 

He didn’t know how to answer that without sounding pathetic and creepy so he avoided it instead.

 

“What do you want, Morgana?”

 

“Arthur,” she answered, affronted, “is that anyway to talk to your…”

 

“Don’t play coy with me, Morgana. You’re not that good an actress,” Arthur interrupted.

 

She huffed. “Fine. I just wanted to make sure that you found Merlin and that you’ll have an attendant at the feast tonight. You seemed so worried about it this afternoon.”

 

“I’ll be fine,” he answered.

 

She smiled again, this time genuine, if not a little calculating. “Good, I’ll see you then.”

 

Morgana freed her arm from his and went back the way to her chambers.

 

OOO

 

An hour later, Merlin burst into Arthur’s room, feast clothes draped over one arm, sword in the other, the tip of the blade trailing behind him. Merlin looked awful, smudges beneath his eyes, posture bent, and paler than usual.

 

“You’re late,” Arthur said flatly.

 

“Yes, sire. Sorry, sire,” Merlin said a bit breathless while he clumsily set the sword on the table with a clang.

 

Arthur paused, his eyebrows climbing at the subservience in Merlin’s tone. Again, he felt that tugging in the center of his chest and he had the fight the urge to wrap Merlin in a blanket and shove him into his bed to get some much needed rest.

 

There was little conversation as Merlin dutifully and awkwardly dressed Arthur and Arthur dizzily tried hard to not notice the way Merlin’s fingers lingered over his skin, biting his lip to stifle the sounds that wanted to burst from his throat. Finally, when the torturous ordeal was over and Merlin was handing Arthur his sword to strap to his hip, Merlin spoke.

 

“Will you need me at the feast, sire?” he asked, eyes downcast and tired.

 

“Of course I’ll need you, Merlin,” Arthur tried hard not to think about possible other connotations of that statement.

 

Merlin sighed. “It’s just…well…”

 

“This isn’t about Faile is it?” he interrupted.

 

Merlin’s head snapped up. “You know her name?”

 

“Yes, I’ve heard,” _everyone_ , “the maids talking.”

 

“Oh,” Merlin answered, his fingers tangling together as he fidgeted, “it’s just, they are all busy with the feast and there is no one to watch her and…”

 

Arthur pressed his lips together in a flat line and Merlin eyes widened.

 

“I’ll figure something out,” Merlin amended.

 

“You better.”

 

Merlin gave a short, uncomfortable bow that made Arthur’s chest ache and the chasm between them seem that much wider.

 

OOO

 

It was not yet an hour into the feast that Arthur noticed a few things: one being that Morgana was wearing her hideous fake smile while Lord Not-Important-Enough-To-Remember droned on about the splendors of the Mercian court, and the second being that Merlin was fidgeting more than usual, even for him. He had twice overfilled Arthur’s cup and sent wine spilling over the rim and onto Arthur’s fingers and wrist (which Arthur admitted wasn’t entirely unusual but he could say for almost certain that it wasn’t malicious, unlike the other times). Arthur didn’t know if it was Merlin’s exhaustion, or if it had to do with the arrangement for the baby’s care that evening, but whichever, it was making Merlin clumsier than normal.

 

It was also making Arthur anxious. Since his revelation, he felt hyper aware of his manservant, and an exhausted Merlin meant increased chances of some kind of diplomatic incident. Arthur didn’t want to find himself jumping up to defend Merlin against some lady because the idiot spilled wine all down the front of their dress. It really wouldn’t look good for the Prince of Camelot to brandish his sword at a noble because they gave Merlin the cuff he deserved.

 

Arthur returned to the conversation at hand briefly, decided that hearing the long winded description of the chandelier in Bayard’s dining room was not worth his interest, and instead, surreptitiously studied Merlin. He already knew about the fatigue, and Merlin, on occasion, did look rather shifty, so the nervousness that was vibrating off of him in waves wasn’t too out of place, but the constant furtive glances across the room, were. Arthur followed his line of sight to the fireplace, and sitting near it, not too close but close enough to be deliciously warm, was a large basket.

 

Arthur felt his eyes widen. Merlin wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He would’ve known better than to bring her to the feast welcoming the Mercian court, their first visit since the disastrous poisoning incident, and since their last visit had been rudely and unceremoniously cancelled. He would know better than to risk the King’s wrath and Camelot’s reputation on the slim chance that a _peasant_ baby would not start _crying_ in the middle of a bloody feast. His feelings for Merlin be damned; he was going to _strangle_ him.

 

He beckoned Merlin to his side with a stiff wave of his hand.

 

“Please tell me,” he said as Merlin bent toward him, sloshing wine down the stem of the goblet, “that the baby is not in the basket by the fire.”

 

There was a tense silence and Arthur saw Merlin’s fingers flex on the pitcher handle.

 

“I won’t tell you then,” he answered.

 

Arthur ran his fingers over his mouth to hide his grimace from those seated near him.

 

“Merlin,” he gritted out between clenched teeth, “I want you to get her out of here, right now. Do you understand?”

 

“But there was no one…”

 

“Just do it,” Arthur hissed urgently. 

 

He saw Morgana’s head whip around to stare at him from the corner of his eye, and slowly, he turned to see her gaze shift to the basket, and a measured, shrewd smile spread across her features. Arthur felt his heart begin to pound in his chest and his mouth went dry as toast. Merlin seemed to be stunned beside him as well as she turned her expression on the pair of them - mischievous, disarming, beautiful - and Arthur knew he was utterly, totally, fucked.

 

It was a slight gesture, if anyone else saw the absent flick of her slim wrist sending the cup tumbling to the floor, they saw an accident and not a signal for a maid (the same that saw Arthur in his bath) to walk over to the basket and drop her entire serving tray next to it.

 

If the loud crash of crockery hitting the stone floor didn’t bring all conversations to a quick end, the unmistakable wail of the infant did. Merlin dropped his jug, which plunked onto the table but thankfully stayed upright, then dashed off, falling to his knees by the basket’s side. He plucked Faile from it, cradled her to his shoulder, and made the appropriate shushing noises and rocking movements to get her to calm. She did, quickly, and Arthur thanked whatever god that was listening for small favors.

 

“So,” Lord Not-Important-Enough-To-Remember started as he swirled the wine in his cup, “do all peasant brats in Camelot get to attend feasts for the nobility or only the babes of servants?” he  asked, a mocking smile on his lips.

 

There was a tittering of noise that crept along the tables that Arthur refused to acknowledge as laughter. He gave Lord Now-Important-Enough-To-Remember-Because-I-Am-Going-To- _Beat_ -You-On-The-Practice-Field-Tomorrow a fierce glare while his insides knotted, and he gripped the edge of the table to keep his hands steady.

 

“I am sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this,” his father said, “ _Arthur._ ”

 

Arthur swallowed thickly. “Of course, father. There is a perfectly good explanation. Excellent, in fact. Really.”

 

“Oh, Arthur,” Morgana interrupted, “stop being so modest.” She was looking at him again, smile wide and genuine, and quick as a fox, she winked. “The baby is the child of one of Arthur’s knights that was lost in the battle against sorcery,” she stated, addressing the court. “Sadly, her mother perished, and when she did, the babe came under Arthur’s protection until a suitable home could be found.”

 

Arthur flashed Morgana a confused yet openly grateful look as the murmuring of the nobles grew louder amidst the new information, and the servants all snickered behind their hands. He risked a glance at Merlin, and noted he looked quite shocked himself.

 

“He has even given up the use of his own personal servant to look after the child to ensure her safety, and that she receives the best care as possible,” Morgana continued.

 

“Has she no family?” a woman, with a kind face, brunette hair and a heavily jeweled hand, asked.

 

Morgana cut Arthur a look that clearly said; _start playing along, idiot!_

 

“None that I would entrust her care to. I will honor my vow to my loyal knight, and see to it that she only goes to a home as noble as he was.”

 

It was, admittedly, laying it on a bit thick, but Uther gave him a nod of approval, and the Lord from before looked effectively cowed.

 

“What is her name?” the same woman asked.

 

“Faile,” Arthur answered. “Her name is Faile.”

 

Uther took that moment to remind the visitors of the greatness of Camelot and her people, the fidelity amongst the nobility to the crown, the steadfast courage in the battle against sorcery, and a thousand other poetic ways to reiterate the fact that Camelot was powerful as an ally or an enemy that Arthur successfully tuned out.

 

He caught Morgana staring wistfully across the room as Merlin bounced Faile against his shoulder while she gurgled happily and slyly raised his goblet to her. She acknowledged the gesture in kind before downing a large amount of wine that was not entirely ladylike. 

 

The feast resumed, the baby quieted and forgotten, and soon, the tables were cleared and music filled the halls. During the dancing, Arthur sidled up to Morgana and gave her a nudge.

 

“You told all the maids to refuse Merlin when he asked for help this evening. You wanted the baby here,” he accused in a low tone.

 

She sipped her wine and they both watched as the noble woman that asked Faile’s name made a beeline for Merlin.

 

“It’s no secret Lady Esther is barren. She might have taken her as a peasant, but now she will be unable to refuse a noble.”

 

“You’ve possibly made a peasant into a princess.”

 

Morgana shrugged.

 

“We’ll have to create a parentage for her,” Arthur added.

 

She smiled. “Nothing a look through Geoffrey’s dusty old tomes can’t fix.”

 

They both watched as Merlin reluctantly handed the swaddled baby over to Lady Esther. She smiled brightly as she gently held Faile in her arms.

 

“Remind me, Morgana” Arthur said with a soft smile, “to never to underestimate your cunning.”

 

OOO

 

The next day, Arthur had Merlin move into his chambers with the baby, citing the need to keep up the pretense. Merlin had grudgingly agreed, and Arthur had him make a pallet on the floor for himself, and a space by the fire for the baby’s basket. After a very long day of meetings and petitions and council with his father, and a long stretch of time in the library sneezing and searching (while Morgana distracted Geoffrey with a request of a recital of her family line), Arthur was thoroughly exhausted. He entered his chambers, ready to peel of his clothes, eat and flop into bed. Of course, throughout his day, he had conveniently forgotten that Merlin and Faile would be in his room as well.

 

Merlin’s skinny frame was laid out on his pallet in front of the fire, his back to Arthur, his grungy sleep shirt rucked up to his ribs affording Arthur a unhindered view of the small of his back, his unblemished skin and the knobs of his spine. A blanket was bunched at his hips, tangled around his legs, his bare feet sticking out the bottom. Arthur could tell by his slow, even breaths that he was in a deep sleep and this time, despite being tired himself, and wanting food and companionship, he would allow Merlin his rest.

 

He inched closer, fascinated by the play of the fire’s light across Merlin’s features, illuminating his sharp cheekbones, and the way his lips were parted as he breathed, and the disarray of his hair, falling across his forehead. He was arranged in an awkward position, his head pillowed on his upper arm, and Arthur wanted to chastise him because he knew Merlin would wake up grumpy and sore, but as he looked further, he understood why. Faile lay next to him, one chubby hand fisted in the fabric of Merlin’s shirt, the other stuffed in her mouth, occasionally sucking on it. Her forehead rested on Merlin’s sternum, and her cheeks were pink from the warmth of the fire.

 

Arthur had not seen many things in his life that he could classify as sweet; maybe, the puppies of his hunting dogs and that one time Morgana had decided she wanted a kitten when they were younger (she promptly grew out of that phase when it destroyed her bedding and peed on her shoes), but nothing compared to the way Merlin’s body had protectively curled around the baby’s, and the way Faile had tucked herself against his chest. It was the picture of innocence, and Arthur couldn’t help but smile, and imagine laying against Merlin’s back, molding his own body around his servant’s, kissing the back of his neck, and falling peacefully asleep by the fire.

 

He stepped away, shaking his head to clear it of his outlandish notions, and returned to the colder side of the room. He prepared for sleep, and slipped into his large lonely bed, drifting off to a fitful rest.

 

Sometime during the night, Arthur heard the distinctive cry of an infant. He pulled his sleep-heavy eyes open as he heard Merlin’s low, soothing, tone, and saw his shadow thrown on the wall by the fire, walking to and fro.

 

“Merlin,” Arthur croaked.

 

“Go back to sleep, Arthur,” Merlin whispered.

 

“S’everything alright?” he persisted.

 

“Yes, go back to sleep.”

 

Arthur didn’t need to be told again. He rolled over, grabbed another pillow in the process, and firmly placed it over his head.

 

OOO

 

It was approaching late morning as Arthur sat at his table, washed, dressed, munching on fruit and cheese, and reviewing the most boring reports he had ever read. Really, the Mercian scribes were completely unimaginative in their vocabulary, and he found himself more than once nodding off mid sentence.

 

So, when Merlin woke, sitting upright with a start, hand to his forehead, sleep rumpled and adorably confused as his eyes fetched about the room, Arthur couldn’t hold back his amusement, smiling wide at the prospect of having entertainment in the form of Merlin’s company. Merlin’s expression was quite comical, muzzy, sleep laden, until awareness permeated, and his blue eyes widened, fearful. He frantically pulled at his blankets, tossing them about, one corner almost landing in the hot coals of the fire. 

 

“Where’s the baby?”  Merlin asked, distraught and frenzied. He pawed at his bed then crawled to the basket and peered in. “I’ve lost her. I’ve lost Faile.”

 

“Merlin!” Arthur snapped, quickly crossing the room. He knelt down in front of his servant, grasping his thin shoulders in a firm grip. Arthur ignored the way his palms grew hot against Merlin’s fire-warmed skin, and how the muscles twitched underneath Arthur’s fingers; instead he focused on Merlin’s panicked expression as he wildly searched the room.

 

“She was right here! I swear it!”

 

“Merlin,” Arthur said, gentler, as if he were trying to calm one of his skittish horses. “Merlin. She’s fine.”

 

“How? Where?”

 

“With Morgana and Lady Esther,” Arthur said quickly. “I promise you, she’s fine.”

 

Merlin stilled, mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ before sagging into Arthur’s grasp, head falling forward in relief.  Arthur unconsciously ran sword-calloused fingers along Merlin’s neck in a comforting gesture as he explained.

 

“You were still asleep and, honestly Merlin, you sleep like the dead. Morgana came to inquire if she and Lady Esther could spend the day with Faile. I acquiesced.”

 

“Why didn’t you wake me?” It was as much a question as an accusation, but Arthur ignored the bite in Merlin’s voice attributing it to the ebbing panic.

 

He huffed, stroking the hair at the nape of Merlin’s neck, feeling Merlin become loose, boneless under his ministrations.

 

“You needed the rest.”

 

There was a moment of silence, the only sound coming from the occasional crackle from the fireplace, and Arthur allowed Merlin to gather himself before pulling his hands away. Slowly, Merlin lifted his head, and though he finally had lost the dark circles beneath his eyes and the tired droop of his eyelids, he still looked troubled.

 

“Are you going to let her have Faile?” he asked softly.

 

Arthur stood, stiffly, turned away and walked to the table. Back to Merlin, he poured a goblet of wine and took a swallow, knowing he wouldn’t be able to bear seeing the hurt that his answer would cause.

 

“If she asks,” he responded. “I’m sorry, Merlin.”

 

There was a wounded sigh and masochist as he was, Arthur turned, not surprised to see an expression of sad resignation on Merlin’s face.

 

“It’s for the best,” Arthur added.

 

Merlin’s frown turned bitter. “Yes, of course. Better to be raised by a lady than a,” he gestured at himself, “servant.”

 

“No, Merlin, that’s not what I…”

 

Merlin got to his feet and gathered up his blankets, tidying them. “I have chores, sire.” 

 

Arthur nodded, busied himself as Merlin dressed, then settled down to continue reading his boring scripts.

 

“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice was timid, almost apologetic.

 

“Yes, Merlin?”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Merlin slipped out before Arthur could acknowledge him, before he could decipher exactly why Merlin was thanking him, and left him with his mind numbing papers and the phantom feeling of soft skin beneath his fingertips.

 

OOO

 

Days passed in which Merlin slept guileless on Arthur’s floor, all long limbs and pale skin and parted lips and dark eyelashes that lay against cheekbones. Days that drove Arthur nearly mad from the _want_ that pooled in his belly each time he spied Merlin sprawled out in thick rugs by the fire, sleep shirt rumpled and twisted, exposing the flat of Merlin’s stomach or the dip of his navel or curve of his hip. Days in which Arthur had witnessed Merlin’s deep loyalty, and devotion, the kindness of his hands, the strength and comfort of his smile – things Arthur was already familiar with but had never truly noticed until they were directed at someone other than himself. Arthur was loathed to admit that Morgana may have been right, he did have to acknowledge that he was possibly, maybe, a little jealous that Merlin’s attention was directed elsewhere, but one glance at the sleeping pair or Merlin’s smile echoing Faile’s toothless grin made it all unknot and flow, warm and invigorating through his veins, tingling under his skin.

 

During the day, Arthur played Prince with the Mercian court and trained the knights, while Morgana and Lady Esther monopolized Merlin’s time until the evening. Each night, it was all Arthur could do not to blurt out his feelings when the two of them were dining together after the activities of the day and he had sunk into his chair, lazy, pliant after a bath and after he had grudgingly assisted Merlin with bathing Faile (he had no clue how he had gotten _soaked_ and Merlin had remained relatively dry). But he bit his lip, swallowed the declaration back down his throat, and attempted to engage Merlin in inane conversation.

 

It was only a few torturous days later that the Lady Esther and her husband, Lord Beckett, approached the court with a request of allowing _Lady_ Faile to become their ward. Arthur made a show of deep consideration, taking a few hours to ruminate and discuss with the Lady Morgana, as she had been spending a considerable amount of time with Lady Esther and could advise him of her character. It really was an hour or so of having lunch in Morgana’s chambers, while Gwen served and Merlin tried to, and then spending time in his own quarters, leaning back in his chair, tossing grapes into his mouth. 

 

Merlin stood near the window, staring out in the courtyard, blankly, lips tipped down, his thoughts written in his features. 

 

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur called, holding out his empty goblet. Merlin dutifully turned from the window, picked up the pitcher, and poured Arthur a drink.

 

Before Merlin could pull away, Arthur reached out and gently grabbed his arm, wrapping his fingers around the small, delicate wrist.

 

“Write her a letter,” he said gently, “Tell her anything you want. I’ll seal it and give instructions to give it to her when she comes of age.”

 

Merlin smiled, soft, grateful. “Thank you, sire.”

 

Arthur stroked his thumb over the soft, sensitive skin, hearing the catch of Merlin’s breath, and desperately ignored the flare of wild affection, before loosening his grip.

 

“Go. Do it now,” he commanded. “I’ll wait.”

 

When Merlin returned, it was with a tightly bound scroll. Arthur didn’t read it, he didn’t need to. He melted the red wax and pressed his personal seal tightly against the vellum.

 

OOO

 

Merlin said his goodbyes to Faile in private before handing her over to Morgana. Arthur did not comment on the brave, watery smile Merlin wore when he passed the baby to Morgana’s arms, or the way he scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his shirt sleeve.

 

OOO

 

When the Mercian delegation was preparing to leave, Lady Esther clutched Faile to her chest and curtsied low to Arthur, her happiness apparent and radiant, and Lord Beckett bowed and clasped Arthur’s arm so tightly he was sure to have a bruise. They praised his kindness, his noble spirit and his stout adherence to duty. They thanked him and assured him that they would regale Faile with the story of the time she spent in the Prince’s care.

 

As they rode away, Arthur looked toward the battlements, and spied the unmistakable outline of his servant. Arthur was certain Merlin stayed there until the delegation was long out of his sight.

 

OOO

 

Merlin was sullen.

 

Arthur had caught Morgana talking with him as she whispered reassurances in his ear; they’ll love her and they’ll take care of her and she’ll be a lady.

 

“I know. I just miss her,” Merlin responded.

 

When Arthur got to his chambers and found Merlin’s sleeping pallet removed and the basket no longer by the fire, he felt that he missed Faile a little too.

 

OOO

 

Arthur knew time would ease Merlin’s heartbreak but he also knew he couldn’t handle Merlin’s forced smiles and quiet demeanor much longer. It was getting better; there were days when glimpses of the Merlin that plagued Arthur’s existence emerged and they were becoming more prevalent with each passing week. Yet, Merlin wasn’t quite himself yet and Arthur wanted to move the process along for Merlin’s sake and for his own sanity.

 

That was how he ended up standing in Gaius’s quarters.

 

“I named her Sparrow,” Arthur said holding out the furry, black, mewling thing. “I know its no substitute but I thought that if you wanted something else to look after…”

 

“Other than you,” Merlin pointed out insolent as always.

 

Arthur sighed. “Yes, other than me.”

 

Merlin took the midnight colored kitten from Arthur’s hand and cradled it to his chest. He stroked the soft slick fur between the kitten’s ears with the tip of his finger, much as he had touched the baby’s cheek, reverent and gentle and was rewarded with a loud purr. Merlin’s small smile made the scratches Arthur hid on his arms, and the three hours of hunting down the litter of feral kittens in the knights’ stable all the more worth it.

 

“Thank you, Arthur,” Merlin said sincerely.

 

“You’re welcome.” He reached out and placed a hand on Merlin’s bony shoulder and squeezed. “Don’t worry, Merlin. I’m sure that in the future you’ll have your own children to dote on. Who knows, you may even be watching after mine.”

 

“That’s a horrifying thought, sire.” Merlin responded, smile growing dangerously close to a smirk. “Especially if they are anything like you.”

 

Arthur laughed and dropped his hand. “If they’re anything like me they may actually like you.”

 

Arthur felt his cheeks instantly flush in the stilted silence. He was hoping Merlin would laugh it off, chalk it up to Arthur being overly nice, trying to cheer him up since he had been moping for several days. It was just like the headlock, really, a small show of affection, nothing deeper, and he was wishing right then that Merlin would do something instead of just standing there, watching, blue eyes sharp and appraising.

 

Merlin stepped forward, the kitten’s needle-like claws imbedded in his shirt and probably causing pinpricks of pain, but he paid no heed as he invaded Arthur’s space.

 

“I’ve been trying to figure it out,” he said, quietly. “You didn’t even like her but you went along with Morgana’s ruse. At first, I thought you just wanted her gone, but I know you, and you wouldn’t lie just for that and…”

 

Arthur surged forward and pressed his mouth against Merlin’s, effectively cutting him off. His lips were warm, dry, yielding, _perfect_ , everything Arthur had imagined and much more. He felt Merlin’s timidity, the trembling hesitance, so he stayed there, perfectly still, just resting his mouth flush to Merlin’s, the kitten mewling between them, until Merlin sighed, and kissed back, eager and fumbling. Arthur slid his hand around Merlin’s neck, fingers carding through the hair at his nape, thumb running over the sharpness of his jaw, gently tilting, guiding, until they fit, together, flawless. It was chaste, then it was heated, and it became hot mouths, slick tongues and heavy pants and Arthur’s grip became a little tighter and Merlin’s sighs a little louder.

 

After several minutes, and with much reluctance, Arthur pulled away, but kept his forehead pressed to Merlin’s, and he could feel Merlin’s breath, hot quick puffs of air brushing past his cheek.

 

“Idiot,” he murmured fondly, “of course, I did it for you.”

 

“Prat,” Merlin responded instinctively. “Thank you.”

 

Arthur smiled and Merlin returned it, bright, beaming, beautiful and Arthur’s world righted, everything sliding back into place, snug, fit, and ready to start turning.

 

OOO

 

Seventeen years later, a young woman visited the court of Camelot, long brown hair framing a delicate face with large blue eyes. Clutched in her hand was a scroll bearing the broken seal of then Prince Arthur now King. And if she broke protocol by throwing her arms around the court sorcerer and hugging him far harder than appropriate, and tarried longer than a regular guest to court, and if she was allowed liberties that were beyond the usual, no one commented. And if she noticed the long lingering looks between the sorcerer and the king, and the soft intimate touches of an elbow or a hand, and the secret tender smiles, she didn’t comment either.

 


End file.
